She Who Would Save Dragons
by knicknack
Summary: Hogwarts didn't teach her that dragons existed. She already knew that dragons existed. Hogwarts taught her that they could be saved.
1. Happily

A/N: This is going to be a threeshot. I've already written most of the other two chapters, so they should be up shortly. This is fairly short compared to the other two.

_"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed."_

_-G.K Chesterson_

The very first time Hermione Granger was introduced to dragons was in a reading circle in her second grade class. Her teacher was a tired, war-weary veteran of her trade, one of those women who had honestly believed they could support and nourish the minds of the young.

Reality, had, of course, punished her for her naive optimism in the form of an infinite loop of temper tantrums, bull-headed parents, and flying projectiles. She had warped into a sort of shade in the classroom, a phantom who ghosted around the class on her tippy toes, praying that her meekness would please the gods of public education and let her escape to her quiet and effortlessly humble abode.

She put in no more effort than was absolutely necessary, a system which seemed to please all parties involved. Naturally, she was the sworn nemesis of a pupil like Hermione, who demanded praise and specialized knowledge in spades, neither of which her teacher could spare.

Even at seven years of age, she was a little know-it-all, her whiny, pretentious escapades already a legend in the staff room. She knew, from the very moment she settled the children down and began reading a very overdone princess/prince/dragon tale, that she would be a problem.

Normal children seemed to be fond of the story, which admittedly had it all, once upon a time. When it was fresh and new, it was chockfull of courtly romance and justice and happily ever afters, all those little elements that fade away with every re-telling of the same damn story to a new group of impressionable brats.

Granger always managed to question the validity of whatever story was being read, and she had sworn that the day she could get through a simple twelve page picture book without Granger's tiny hand shooting in the air would be the day she would buy herself that lottery ticket. That day was no exception. She imagined the brat would have a problem with the existence of dragons, or some other such nonsense.

"Miss, I have a question..." Hermione began.

Well, of course you do, she thought. And looky here, I seem to have a variety of answers to choose from, all along the lines of, "Sit down, shut up, and perhaps I can make my way to my warm bed tonight without fantasizing about your delicious demise."

But of course, things like lawsuits and suspensions exist to curb the flow of such thought, so she put on her best maternal face and said, "What is it, dear?"

"Well, I couldn't help but thinking that this entire thing is a tad unfair, don't you think? The prince slays the poor dragon, and for what? It's not like he _ate_ the princess, or anything. Her kingdom just offered her to him, and assumed that that would be his natural course of action. The dragon is a victim of a terrible understanding, really, and I think it is absolutely heinous that you would read a story glorifying such a senseless massacre to impressionable children", Hermione declared.

The wide-eyed idealist of her youth would have cherished such a bright, gifted student for her vocabulary and wide grasp of sophisticated ideals.

The woman she was at the moment, however, just sighed and said, "Hermione, dear, it's just a _story._ Dragons don't really exist, you know, so please do _try_ to enjoy it, or at least let the other children listen in peace."

Dragons, of course, do exist, but a woman so devoid of imagination and wonderment would never be privileged enough to know this.

Hermione is nothing if not prepared upon her arrival, four years later, at Hogwarts. She has devoured every scrap of literature she could get her hands on about this business of magic, and is quite certain that there is nothing she could encounter that could surprise her.

Perhaps, had she not had the misfortune of meeting a certain two blustering Gryffindor boys, she would be right.

As far as actual magic went, however, she was likely the most knowledgeable first year in the school. She had resigned herself to the fact that she, born of muggles, was an underdog in the game.

She had found that she was not much of a gambler, so unfamiliar with odds and hedging of bets and pools was she, but when she did indulge in it, she always bet on the clear favourite. It was her mission in life to be somewhat of the favourite in every scenario, the go-to girl if you will.

Perhaps, she thought, as she introduced herself to an awkward redhead and a polite boy with the most startling green eyes, something like that was easier said than done.

The first in a very long line of many books that she would check out from the Hogwarts library is titled_ A Comprehensive Tome Detailing the Proper Methodology for Dragon-Related Circumstances. _It's quite a mouthful, but she will grow used to magical books and their needlessly complicated headings with time.

She mumbles something about finding an edition of _Hogwarts: a History _to her new friends, who haven't yet been exposed to her enough to know that she could recite the book from heart. Most of the book she actually checks out is useless to a novice to the subject like her.

Where she searched for basic history, she finds the correct temperature at which to boil something called Gideon Root to soothe a dragon's toothache. Where she hunts for interesting little factoids, she discovers the most desirable breeding combinations for a variety of traits, ranging from colouring to flame temperature.

However, all of this confirmed exactly what she had known all along, ever since she was nothing more than one brat among many in a reading circle.

Hogwarts didn't teach her that dragons existed. She already knew that dragons existed. Hogwarts taught her that they could be saved.


	2. Ever

A/N: Here's the second part. The last part is almost done, so it should be available in the next few days.

Hermione is well versed in the language of make-belief. One who had been exposed to as many fairy-tales as she had was destined to recognize the basic patterns of the stories and apply them to reality.

That's why she's not surprised in the slightest when she realizes she's become part of a trio. The most important aspects of life come in threes, she knows this. Triangles are, after all, the most fortuitous of shapes.

So she settles into the comfortable dynamics of her relationship with one Ronald Weasley and _the _Harry Potter. She knows, during all this, that she has a choice to make.

As the only female in the group, she knows she must choose one of them as a love interest. She really has no choice in the matter.

They can't always exist as they do in their first year, all chocolate frogs and foul tasting beans and gentle teasing. She knows that with time will come deep rumbling voices, and soft flowing dresses and awkward first kisses. When that time comes, she will be ready, a favourite of sorts in the running.

There's a difference in her two unwilling suitors, one deeper than the contrast between flaming and jet black locks as the boys lean together to whisper about whatever petty things boys their age choose to discuss.

That difference is in their roles.

Harry is the hero. There's no way around it. He was born to greatness, selected to do great things by powers beyond his control. As opposed as he was to the idea, his fate was clear even to those who refused to buy into divination. Perhaps he wasn't the archetypal hero, not being blessed with rippling muscles or a chiselled jaw, but his bright, honest eyes and wry grin could easily be the subject of future heroic commemorations.

There were certain advantages to being the hero's lady, of course.

She could expect nothing less than an epic romance, with all that entailed, as well as a considerable amount of fame and fortune. Of course, there were pitfalls down that path as well.

People often confuse the hero's love interest with the heroine. Heroines and heroes never exist within the same tale. If the hero loves a girl, she's there for him to rescue. She's little more than a vapid little burden he must bear, pretty as she may be. Hermione knows she's not the type accustomed to heaving bosoms and fainting spells, to waiting around for her true love to rescue poor dainty little her. And so, she turns her eyes to the other possibility.

Ron's an interesting case, in that everything that composes Ronald Weasley refuses to stay within the confines of one supporting role. He's certainly the hero's best friend, his lifelong companion, but there's more to him than that. All at once, he's the loyal knight, the fool, the comic relief, the bitter rival, the antagonist, and more.

Being his intended means her character has to be dynamic, has to change alongside him. She rather likes that idea. Hermione Granger is always evolving, and she didn't know that she could be ever with someone who stopped this perpetual metamorphosis of hers.

Every bit of him is warm and lively, from his twinkling blue eyes to his hectic home. She can imagine finding happiness within that warmth, as an equal, not as a convenient plot device. At the very least, it's less likely that one of them will die tragically as their tale comes to an end.

This is all fairly difficult for her to work out. That is, until she discovers that Ron has a brother who is a dragon trainer. At that point, her choice is obvious.

Hermione's strength had always lied in words, not numbers. Oh, she was very adept at arithmetic, much more so than even the more intelligent of her peers, but she truly shone when she was allowed to use her extensive vocabulary.

In that way, she was still the smug little girl who would use the biggest words she knew to impress or confuse her audience, depending on who she was speaking to. As she grew older, she found that the Wizarding community favoured simple math, with an emphasis on subtraction. It was all very precise, certainly, and it reeked of traditional, dry Britain. She adopts the system as she immerses herself in the culture.

As time passes, she finds she tallies the negatives, counts who is not there as opposed to who is. In her third year, she watches as Cedric Diggory's desks remain vacant in all his classes. Three years later it is the Headmaster's chair she observes, in all her objective scrutiny.

In gatherings of old faces, she comes to pick out gaps that had previously been filled. She finds places where a little house elf should be strolling along, or a red headed prankster should be spreading merriment and delight.

She keeps reminding herself that these are dangerous times, and she should be grateful to still pick out the flash of broken lenses over green eyes in a crowd, or reach out her hand to find a freckled, sweaty palm beside her. Sometimes, after the all the tallies have been made, she wonders what happened to the bushy-haired little girl who dreamed of cold, shimmering scales beneath her legs.

She and Ron decide to marry after everything's over.

It's a vow he makes to her, springing from chapped lips as they lie in the cold autumn air. They've been searching for Horcruxes for what seems like eternity, and she and Ron forge their romance in camp fires and shielding spells. She chalks it off to be a baseless lover's promise, the kind so many girls hear between pants and moans on nights like this, promises that never come to fruition.

And yet, neither she nor Ron were ever the sort to do things half-assed, and so, after their story, Harry's story really, comes to a freshly inked, "And they lived Happily Ever After", they wed. There are so many meaningful places to choose from, so many meanings beneath meanings.

Hermione chooses a field in the middle of Ireland. Not one of them has ever been there, but it looks nice enough from the brochure. She's the bride, after all, and if she wants to say her vows in the middle of nowhere in Ireland, well, that's her decision.

She leads everyone to believe that it's a whim of hers, nothing more than a passing fancy. Some part of her knows that that's not the truth. All of their meaningful places, every one of them, have their own private ghosts, their own discreet tragedies.

She wants to walk down the aisle in a new place, so new that it's never been tainted by the Great War, or any war for that matter. On the day that the blushing, redheaded man who would always be the same blushing redheaded boy she once knew kissed her at the altar, much went wrong. A great uncle of his was terribly allergic to the cake, the flowers were all but trampled by the younger Weasleys, and her hair was an absolute mess.

She couldn't possibly have been happier.

They go to Romania for their honeymoon. It's certainly not a tropical paradise or an obvious destination for newlyweds, but Hermione wants to, and Ron learned long ago that sometimes it was best to give Hermione what she wanted without asking questions.

He figures it's just Hermione being good old, practical Hermione, figuring she should become acquainted with everyone in his immediate family if she's going to be married to him and all. It's not.

It's not anywhere close to that, but Hermione lets him go on thinking that. She'll let him think whatever he wants, really, because for the second time in her life she's seeing a real life, honest-to-God fire breathing dragon.

She doesn't exactly count Norbert; dragons, to her, have always been gorgeous creatures to be feared and respected. He was more pitiful and adorable than anything. She remembers her first encounter, at the Triwizard tournament.

She can still recall gripping the stands underneath her in an iron grip as she watched each jewelled dragon and its opponent. For once in her life, she's not rooting for Harry. She's not rooting for anyone; she couldn't care less about the silly tournament. All she wants is to sit and breathe and devour the magnificent creatures before her.

Even that experience pales in comparison to her time in Romania. Charlie pulls some strings and arranges for a ride on a very small, sweet-tempered adolescent dragon the colour of a newborn piglet. It's barely large enough for Ron and her to sit on, and the ride is incredibly turbulent, but it is perhaps the most euphoric experience in her life.

There's an ancient joy in it, elation older, she thinks, than time itself. She could never describe how it felt like to confirm her deep-seated childhood belief, that dragons didn't need to be slain, or hurt. They could be tamed. They could be _saved._

Her experience rivals Ron's. He's not much for travelling via temperamental monster, but he's never seen that look on his girl's face before. She was never one for flying, for the open skies. She was content to be a little red and gold speck for Harry and him to pick out in the stands. Yet, seeing her, all open eyed wonderment and barely concealed ecstasy, wind in her hair, he wonders if he hasn't fallen in love all over again.

She knows what she wants to do with her life. She's known since she was little; she just didn't know the proper wording.

Unfortunately, she finds that almost all of the positions within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures are appointed by The Minister of Magic, or his cabinet ministers. The same could be said for a number of the other departments. Due to this, the positions usually went to friends of the Minister, or at least candidates he deemed "acceptable".

A lesser woman might have resigned herself to her fate, and taken up a more respectable profession, like healing. Lucky for Wizarding Britain's lesser citizens, Hermione was not a lesser woman. Her campaign for Minister of Magic is much better received than her school girl SPEW mission of years gone by. She is, in every sense of the word, an underdog.

The negatives once again tally up. The endorsement of the boy who lives helps, but she is not a pureblood. She is not a man. She is not wealthy. She is not experienced. She is, however, experienced in the business of making favourites out of underdogs. Her campaign is much the same as the slanderous ones against her. Isn't it time for Britain to experience a woman's touch? Wasn't it the Purebloods who destroyed the Ministry, as well as much of the lives of the magical folk of Britain? Wasn't it time for change? Time for a candidate who came from humble roots, who understood the plight of the common witch or wizard, who had been instrumental in bringing peace back to the land? It was, according to 72% of the voting public. They would not regret it.

Hermione's reign brings sweeping reforms. Her first acts involve bettering the lives of those born to muggles, as well as muggles themselves. She pores through every known law, finding every tiny instance of discrimination against muggle-borns. Some are horrendous, some miniscule.

Regardless, within a few months time, she has done everything in her power to alter these laws, to balance the scales. She then turns her attention to non-wizards. She focuses less on the house elves than her younger self would have; she knows they are content with their lot in life, though she does not understand it.

She introduces bills to combat discrimination against magical creatures, and appoints a committee to study and improve species-specific social conflicts. To her departments she appoints the most competent wizards and witches she can find, not the most popular. The state of the nation reflects this.

She adds a few personal touches to the education system that is of no interest to anyone other than her. One such tweak is to suggest literature for certain age groups. One of them is a personal favourite of hers, one of those overdone old princess/prince/dragon tales. Only in this one, everyone rides off into the sunset, dragon included.

Two and a half years into her term she becomes ill. It's not noticeable to others, so she pushes it aside, ever the dedicated career woman. It settles in her bones, and it's ever present, but it's bearable so she grins and bears it, as Hermione is wont to do.

Eventually she becomes accustomed to it, and it's at that juncture that she realizes she needs to, at the very least, go have herself looked at. It's the _responsible _thing to do, after all. The Healers at St. Mungo's poke and prod and run tests until she's sore all over. For her, the level of discomfort she experiences is usually proportionate to the accuracy of an examination, so she is satisfied that she has been thoroughly examined.

Her tests come back negative for every single magical ailment for which tests exist. If all the charts and graphs are to be believed, she's in perfect health. She knows that what she is, how she's feeling, is anything but healthy, so she goes to a muggle doctor. It's an easy diagnosis there, at least.

Cancer.


	3. After?

Hermione can't believe, with all the potential magic has, that no one has sat down and thought, "Well, I suppose now that the den's all tidy, I can get around to working on the cure for that disease that kills hundreds of thousands of people a year." Oh. She supposed that was the important part she was missing. Muggles weren't _people. _At least, they weren't to the wealthy purebloods that sponsored all the medical research, who were much more interested in curing those pesky little genetic defects that come with all the inbreeding. There has, she discovers, never been a case of a pureblood or a half blood being diagnosed with the disease. It seems that magical blood is somewhat of an antidote, an impenetrable biological defence. The only affected people are muggles and muggleborns. And, after all, what's the point in saving trash like them? She just doesn't understand. She's no expert in muggle biology, but she knows that a disease like cancer isn't genetic. She's more familiar with wizard biology, so she knows it isn't magical by nature. All it is is uncontrollable rapidly dividing cells. It sounds fairly mundane, really. Yet, for Hermione Granger, at twenty-eight years old, it is nothing short of a death sentence.

And so, Hermione receives treatment. Muggle treatment. Magical medicine is infinitely easier. There's nothing a foul tasting potion or a well-executed flick of the wand can't cure. Muggle treatment, on the other hand, is invasive and devastatingly personal. There are all these strange people she doesn't know touching her, and so many chemicals, and the sterility of it all nauseates her. Perhaps the worst part is that she can't bring herself to tell anyone about it. She has to, she knows she does, she would be absolutely furious if Ron or Harry were in her position and didn't let her know. But she can't. She just wants to spend what time she has left with them, with her precious people, because that's all the treatment can offer her. Time. She's going to die, this is going to kill her, and it's only a question of _when._ She tries to manage her time as effectively as possible, dividing it between the Burrow, Grimmauld Place, The Ministry, and home. The constant scheduling is killing her, maybe even more than the cancer is.

As the disease progresses, her glamour spells can no longer conceal the effects it has on her body. She can't focus on work, on fixing other people problems, not when she can't even deal with her own. So she resigns. There's a somewhat large magical creature collaborative strike at the time of her resignation, protesting unfair treatment. She claims her resignation is in support of it. Even though her body feels the effects of her cancer, she's still as politically shrewd as ever, and she's effectively martyred herself. It's a good note to leave the world of politics on. She knows she should use the free time to spend with her loved ones, but she finds herself wandering around parks or seeing matinees for the first time in years. She was practically twenty-eight going on senile.

Ron notices. Of course Ron notices. No one would accuse him of being an observant partner by any means, but he'd have to be dumb, deaf, and blind not to see that something was up. Hermione knows she's not the type to wander aimlessly, to disappear for long amounts of time, to resign as Minister of Magic over what amounts to a bloody tiff. She's not all that surprised when he eventually sits her down with that horrible stern look on his face, that uncharacteristic grimace, and confronted her. She was, however, surprised to hear his deduction. He clasps her hands gently, looks straight at her and whispers, "Hermione, I need you to be honest with me...is there someone else?" She almost laughs, but the disease sucks all mirth and merriment from her. It's been so long, she imagines it'll come out as more as a pitiful, wheezing cough than anything. In some ways, he was right. Perhaps this disease was her illicit lover. It was always with her, always, constantly and perpetually _inside _her. It was cancer she lied with at night; it was cancer that drew her attention at day. The illness was her morbid mistress, the distraction that kept her from loving Ron as he deserved to be loved. But Ron wouldn't appreciate her subtle internal narration, so she tells him the truth. He needn't worry; she'd been faithful to him. She'd only been faithless to herself.

She decides the best way to break it to him is clinically. The first Hermione he knew was like that, to some extent, ever the logical, coolheaded girl. She doesn't cry; she knows him well enough to anticipate that the sight of her tears will derail the conversation. So she speaks in biological terms, in odds, in time. She gives it to him in months, days, hours. She eventually translates it for him: "Ronald, I'm very, very ill...I haven't much time left." He is angry at first...furious, really. Not at her, never at her, but at the world which kept taking and never giving. He flies into a terrible rage, smashing every fragile object he could grasp. And in the centre of the flying shards and spittle and curses was Hermione, the calm within the storm. She is the picture of passive pity, sitting with her perfect posture, hands delicately folded on her lap, not fazed in the slightest by the destruction. It takes a great deal more than a tantrum to make a woman who had been through what she had flinch.

Eventually, his rage slips away from him, leaving a giant chasm within him that could only be filled with crippling sorrow. And filled it was, and he crumples to the ground from the force of it all. He was clutching at her knees like a bratty child, and she could do nothing but play the ever patient mother, cooing and threading her hands through his brilliant hair. His grief overflows from the confines of his mortal shell, pouring out of his eyes in the form of saltwater, out of his mouth in the form of great gasps of air. She understands completely. All the pain the ordeal has caused her is nothing compared to what her husband is experiencing. They are the sort of people for whom the term "soul mate" was coined. She was getting off easy, being dealt a merciful sentence like death. There was peace in the afterlife, contentment. For the partner she left behind, however, there was only anguish, misery, and suffering. It was a life sentence, an unrivalled cruelty in their world. She could no nothing for her husband, her partner, her other half, other than whisper condolences as his sobs turned into a mantra of just her name. "Mione," he whispered. "Mione, Mione, oh, Mione..."

She knows that she was once brave. Once upon a time she wore her bravery as a shield, an impenetrable fortress. No matter her faults, she was brave and loyal and true. They were her defining characteristics, so says the Sorting Hat. And define her they must. How else could Hermione Granger, hailed by many as the reincarnation of Rowena Ravenclaw, end up in any house other than the obvious one which would stimulate her intellect and curiosity? In her darkest times in her life, she had reminded of herself of this. Yes, she is terribly irritable with her closest friends, but she would lay down her life for them in a second. No, she isn't as beautiful or as strong as she would like to be, but her loyalty shines within her, brighter than any phoenix. She's bossy, stuck-up, and short-tempered, but she's so terribly, heartbreakingly brave, this teenage girl thrust into the role of a warrior in the midst of the darkest battle the world has ever known. In the realm of Once Upon a Times, she is the bravest, most loyal ally any knight or prince could hope for, and a worthy heroine in her own right. The Hermione of the here and now knows all of this. She just can't bring herself to believe any of it.

She's confined to bed rest. The doctors want her in the hospital for observation, but she'll be damned if she spends her last moments surrounded by beeping machines and the smell of latex. She was never a heroine, but she figures she's contributed enough to the story to get some of the perks, namely choosing where she dies. Heroines always end their stories in fields or meadows, under trees and moons, surrounded by flowers and heroes. She's not a true heroine, which is good, because she has no interest in dying in the prettiest place she knows. She knows where she wants to end it all. It's the same place she's dreamt about her whole life, the scenery lingering in the warmest places of her mind. She wants to ride a dragon. The last thing she wants to experience is fierce wind and ancient power and ethereal warmth. She can't. Of course she can't. There's no time to arrange it, for one. It's not like there are any dragons in the immediate vicinity, and she'd never make the trip. Besides, no rational person is going to let a terminally ill, possibly mentally unstable witch ride one of their dragons. So, she supposes she'll have to settle for the next best thing.

They say that magical folk know when they're going to die. It's a terrible dread, they say, an apprehension that settles somewhere in the general vicinity of the liver. Healthy wizards and witches who are about to meet their demise in some tragic accident typically write it off as some kind of freak indigestion. The ones who aren't as lucky, aren't as healthy, well they recognize it for what it is. Some people experience intense fear, anger, and helplessness, and they meet their ends in this fashion. Others view it as quite the blessing, as it gives them time to prepare, to say their last goodbyes. Hermione is one of these people. She knows, as soon as she opens her eyes one morning, that it will be the last time she will do so. It strikes her suddenly, after the period of confusion and haze between consciousness and unconsciousness passes. She knows. She knows, and she accepts it. She's not going to die on this bed, though. She supposes it's time to gather Harry and Ron. It's time for them to board the Hogwarts Express together, for the last time.

It is the middle of summer, so the train would normally be out of commission. However, when the former, and still very popular, Minister of Magic and the saviour of the wizarding world ask for a personal favour, you bloody well do your best to accommodate them. It's the last journey the three of them will ever make together. It has to be just the three of them; Hermione knows this, because after all, don't the greatest things in life come in threes? And they were great. The Golden Trio they called them, Weasley, Granger, and Potter. Once upon a time, there was nothing in the world they couldn't conquer, not when they were together. Even though triangles are the strongest shapes, circles are the most fitting for endings. So, if Hermione's going to break up the trio, she'll have the decency to bring the story all the way around, in a circle of sorts, back to where it started. It was here, on the Hogwarts Express, that they met for the first time. She leads her two boys along the length of the train, until she finds the compartment they had chosen on their first trip to Hogwarts. It was in that crowded little compartment that the trio was formed, and not the spacious destination they were heading to. And that was where it would end.

The sky is a brilliant shade of clear, clear blue, the best sort of accent for the miles of English countryside that roll by outside. They're all cramped together on one booth in the compartment. Hermione sits in the middle with her head on Ronald's shoulder, clasping Harry's pale palm in her hand. She stares out the window and talks. She just talks. She tells them all sorts of silly little things she never got around to telling them. She tells them why they're here, on this train. The train is huge, and fast and graceful. It's sleek and metallic, covered in red and black plates. It's powered by fire, powered by flames, and smoke billows out of it. In short, it's an industrial dragon. She tells them about dragons. She tells them about the little girl who reads their stories and sympathizes with them. She tells them about the wide eyed teenager sitting in the stands during the Triwizard Tournament, taking in the sheer beauty of the creatures. She tells them about the blushing bride who honestly enjoys riding a bright pink dragon more than she does her own wedding. She tells them about the Minister of Magic whose tweaks to the education system are for the sole purpose of giving fantasy dragons their long deserved happy endings. The boys watch her during all this, and wonder how much they don't know about the girl between them...how much they'll never know. But then, Ron cracks a joke and Hermione scolds him in that tone of hers and Harry laughs and holds them closer.

And for a few moments, they're eleven years old again, on their first train ride to Hogwarts. Suddenly it's all chocolate frogs and foul tasting beans and gentle teasing again. Ron's a freckled imp with a trunk full of hand-me-downs and a slanted view of the world. Harry's a reserved boy with broken glasses hiding mirthful green eyes, realizing, for the first time in his life, what it feels like to be among friends. Hermione is great masses of chocolate hair and a haughty tone, thinking she knows all there is in the world to know, even though she knows so very, very little. Their future stretches in front of them, much like the rolling green hills leading to the place they will learn to call home. There will be dementors and trolls and Death Eaters to come, but that's all right, because there will also be hippogriffs and golden snitches and phoenixes. Hermione wonders if perhaps this, and not the calculated magic she knows with all its potion ingredients and charm inflections, is really the sort of magic muggles always talk about? The moment leaves as quickly as it came, and so does Hermione.

Her boys hold her as she goes, closing her eyes for the last time surrounded by everything that is the Golden Trio. Neither of them knows whether to cry or scream, but Hermione would. Hermione always knew whatever needed to be known, always, and they would never have made it as far as they did without her. Any sane girl would have turned them, those two blustering beasts, away. A normal girl would take one look at the two of them, who radiated danger and power and _fire_ so brightly, and run to safety. But not Hermione, never Hermione. She takes it upon herself to _tame _them. She sees an insecure, jealous redhead who wants nothing more than his time in the spotlight and turns him into a brave, loyal knight, who's happy to walk outside of the limelight, as long as it's with her. She takes an abused, confused boy who's had the weight of the world thrust upon him, and makes him into the courageous, gentle man he is today, the hero who's saved the world more times than anyone can count. In other words, she _saved _them.

The Hogwarts they arrive at is different than the one they know. They've never seen it in the summer, all breezy warmth and open space. They carry her between them, as they walk the path they've known for as long as they've been a trio. They bury her beneath the Whomping Willow. It's an ancient tree, and it knows that their needs at the moment are greater than its own, so it lets them go about their task without interruption. The digging itself they do without magic. Harry and Ron want to feel the place she'll spend eternity in themselves, even if it means raw hands and dirty nails and exhaustion. When they've finished, and they've placed her in as gently as they can, the magic comes out. When all is said and done, they charm it so that if an individual tries to get to the grave, he'll meet fierce resistance from the Whomping Willow. The same is true for a couple. But if a trio sets out to see Hermione's final resting place, it'll be an easy task. And if, in the future, a trio of young Hogwarts students sets out to solve this mystery, following in the footsteps of a certain Golden trio, they'll find a simple gravestone for an extraordinary woman that reads only this: Hermione Jean Granger _She who would save dragons._

A/N: I may include an epilogue for this.


End file.
